


The light is in the architecture

by bessyboo, exmanhater, heartequals (savvygambols), knight_tracer



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Audio Format: M4B, Audio Format: MP3, Audio Format: Streaming, Community: pod_together, Dinner Parties, F/M, Found Family, Gen, Podfic, Podfic & Podficced Works, Podfic Length: 45-60 Minutes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 23:53:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11611578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bessyboo/pseuds/bessyboo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/exmanhater/pseuds/exmanhater, https://archiveofourown.org/users/savvygambols/pseuds/heartequals, https://archiveofourown.org/users/knight_tracer/pseuds/knight_tracer
Summary: Three private dinner parties in the lives of Obi-Wan, Padme, and Anakin during the course of the Clone Wars.





	The light is in the architecture

**Author's Note:**

> This fic would not be half of what it is without the amazing and tireless cheerleading and betaing by bessyboo. And pinch-hitting! She really knocked it out of the ballpark, people. bessyboo, thank you for reminding me that Anakin did actually lose a limb as Obi-Wan's padawan /sobs. Thank you also to knight_tracer and exmanhater for jumping in like champions! You are both the best.
> 
>  
> 
> _Notes from Bess: special shout-out to knight_tracer who recorded her part from a HOTEL ROOM IN JAPAN #dedication! Additional thanks to reena_jenkins for betaing the podfic, and platinumvampyr for doing a cover art beta._
> 
>    
>  **Podfic runs 56:27. Cover art & podbook compiled by bessyboo.**

**MP3 [51.9MB]:** [Download](http://bessyboo.parakaproductions.com/My%20Podfic/MP3s/The%20light%20is%20in%20the%20architecture.mp3) (right-click/save as)  
**Audiobook (M4B) [26.3MB]:** [Download](http://bessyboo.parakaproductions.com/My%20Podfic/Podbooks/The%20light%20is%20in%20the%20architecture.m4b) (right-click/save as)

  


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#  **ATTENTION!** You are about to read a transcript of a work that was meant to be experienced as audio. Please be aware that _by reading this work without listening to the audio component, you are missing a key aspect of this fanwork_.

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**YEAR ONE**

It’s all very suspiciously like a house-warming but Obi-Wan’s not going to say it. It’s supposed to be a small dinner party to celebrate Anakin passing the trials. He’s no more superstitious than the average Jedi, which is to say, not superstitious at all. If he were prone to fantasy, however, he’d believe something like _saying it would make it true_. But he is not superstitious. He merely keeps his mouth shut and refuses to make eye-contact with Anakin until the urge to laugh has subsided.

“Master Kenobi,” says Senator Amidala warmly, greeting him at the door. Obi-Wan steadily does not look at Anakin lurking in the foyer of Senator Amidala’s new living space. “Thank you for coming. We were getting worried.”

“My apologies, Senator Amidala,” says Obi-Wan. “A member of the Council caught me just as I left the temple. I was delayed much longer than I’d like. And, of course, the cake.” He holds it up.

“Please, call me Padme, Master Kenobi. We’ve known each other for years.”

“Of course, Padme. If you’d call me Obi-Wan.”

“Padme was worried,” says Anakin, which meant that he was irrationally worried and Padme was slightly -- but reasonably! -- concerned. “Afraid you might have died on the way over.”

“Anakin, please,” says Obi-Wan. “You’d know if I died.”

Anakin blinks. “Well, yeah.”

Padme looks between them, then gestures at Obi-Wan like _stop standing in the doorway and get in my kriffing house_ in the way only a woman who used to be queen can do, royal from her wrist to her fingers with an understated exasperation in the motion. Obi-Wan obliges and the door slides shut behind him.

“How would you know if Anakin died?” Padme asks. Her voice is sharp. Obi-Wan looks at her, surprised. He glances at Anakin, who looks similarly surprised.

“You know,” says Obi-Wan. “Jedi can sometimes feel each other die.”

“But he’s no longer your padawan,” says Padme. “You no longer share that bond.”

“The bond between any Jedi is strong,” says Obi-Wan. “In the cases of Jedi who are particularly close, such as masters and padawans, there’s feedback when one or the other goes through intense pain.” Or intense pleasure, or intense happiness, or any kind of emotion felt intensely, which is what made living with Anakin Skywalker a lesson in patience and which made Obi-Wan wonder if Qui-Gon had also wanted to leave him in the Outer Rims as a padawan. Probably. Obi-Wan was never the best padawan, however hard he tried.

“So Anakin, you could feel Obi-Wan die now? Or Obi-Wan, you could feel Anakin die? Even though the two of you no longer live together?” A shadow of hurt crosses her face, though he does not know if it is from the thought of Anakin dying or the idea that he and Anakin are closer than brothers.

Anakin takes the cake from him, smirking slightly when Obi-Wan lifts it a half-centimeter higher. Obi-Wan is never really going to forgive the Force for allowing that last, late growth spurt that set Anakin just a tiny bit taller than him.

“Did you--” Padme catches herself. “I’m sorry. Nevermind. Let’s go eat.”

“Did I feel Qui-Gon die?” asks Obi-Wan, before Padme can turn and lead them deeper into her home. It’s a teachable moment. “Yes, I did.”

“What did it feel like?” Padme asks. “Did you feel it physically or emotionally?”

“Both. I felt Qui-Gon’s wound from Darth Maul but it was indistinguishable from the heartache I felt.”

“And then?”

“Qui-Gon died at peace,” says Obi-Wan. “Without fear. Without anxiety. He died at peace.”

Padme looks thoughtful, trying hard to understand something that comes so naturally to him and Anakin. “So you and Anakin could feel each other die, regardless of whether or not you’re bonded as master and padawan.”

“Yes,” says Obi-Wan. The sense memory of Qui-Gon is still painful after all these years. He tries not to dwell on it. “We would feel each other die.”

“This is the first time I’ve heard of this,” she says. “I’ll have to learn more. Come, there’s dinner waiting.”

A welcome and easy exit from what is becoming a difficult conversation. Padme Amidala doesn’t miss a moment, which is what makes her one of the best politicians in the whole wretched Senate. 

“So you'll just have to not die,” says Anakin cheerfully. Padme laughs and takes the cake from him.

It takes Obi-Wan a moment to parse that sentence and its meaning. When he does, he finds that it delights him, shamefully. A Jedi knows no attachments but, well, it's Anakin. “I'll do my best,” he says, with a wry smile. And then, throwing his better instincts to the win: “Do try not to die, as well.”

Anakin grins. “I don’t plan on it.” He turns around, letting Padme lead the way to the dining room. “Come on, I made dinner.”

_It's not a housewarming_ , Obi-Wan reminds himself. He allows himself a quiet chuckle.

“I'm a great cook,” says Anakin, looking over his shoulder with a bright smile.

“I know,” says Obi-Wan.

;;

Anakin is teasing Obi-Wan mercilessly with an ease that almost makes Padme jealous. Anakin is her husband, and he loves her first and foremost, but with Anakin comes Obi-Wan, and the familiarity the two have speaks to a shared decade she'll never be able to match. 

And some kind of Force-anchored bond, apparently. She’s going to research Jedi behavior tomorrow.

“So just because you have a crush on your commander, I--”

“Anakin, please. Don't be gauche.”

“It's okay,” says Anakin. “We understand, don't we Padme?”

Padme very much does not understand. “They're clones, Anakin,” she says cautiously, lest she tread on either man's ego. Normally she'd have no problem treading on Anakin’s ego, but Obi-Wan is a guest and a Jedi Master and she respects him as such.

“You can't see the light in them?” Anakin asks.

Padme looks at Obi-Wan, baffled. Obi-Wan raises his eyebrows. “What light, Anakin?” he asks.

“The light, you know, the light around them!” Anakin looks as confused as Padme feels. “It changes with each clone - you don't see it, Obi-Wan?”

“You're the Chosen One, Anakin. You see things far beyond what Padme and I ever will.”

“Okay,” says Anakin. He takes this easily. Padme wonders how many times he’s heard _you’re the Chosen One_ as an explanation for any of his many idiosyncrasies. How many times had this been a blessing? How many times had this been a complaint? How many times had it been true?

“The clones have light around them,” Anakin continues. “It’s different for each one. And Commander Cody’s is definitely the brightest of the 212th, so it makes sense that you’d be attracted to him.”

“I am not attracted to him,” says Obi-Wan with a huff. “And this light -- is it an aura?”

“No, it’s light,” says Anakin, with the patience of a man who has spent the past ten years explaining his Chosen One idiosyncrasies to Obi-Wan. That is, not patient at all. “I can’t explain it.”

Padme is ceaselessly fascinated by her husband and will be until the all stars in the galaxy burn out. That said: “Are you sure you weren’t under the influence of any hallucinogens when you met Commander Cody? It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve met someone in such a state. You told me about your first trip to Mon Cala.”

“First of all, that was Obi-Wan’s fault. Second, I didn’t see light, I saw two-headed Mon Calamari. Totally different.”

Obi-Wan strokes the edges of his mustache with one hand. He looks thoughtful. “Interesting.”

“What, your attraction to Commander Cody or the light--”

“Anakin, I will send you to bed without dessert,” says Obi-Wan.

“You can’t, I don’t live with you anymore,” he shoots back.

Padme is also fascinated by Obi-Wan. She’s not sure if it’s professional interest or personal. She loves Anakin and she knows he loves her but she can never pretend to know what is going on inside his head at any given moment if he doesn’t tell her. She’s not sure she really wants to know; she loves his unknowable mysteries. With Obi-Wan, however, she knows that she wants to pry and pry until she can climb into his head and dig around in there. “Obi-Wan, why did you make Anakin eat hallucinogenic seaweed on Mon Cala?”

Obi-Wan has the grace to look faintly embarrassed. “Ah. I wasn’t convinced they were hallucinogenic. So he volunteered to try them.”

“You told me to,” says Anakin.

“All right,” says Obi-Wan. “We played rock, flimsi, lightsaber, and he lost.”

Padme laughs. “I thought the Jedi were more--”

“Dignified?” Anakin says. “I thought so too.”

“Anakin--”

“ _Judicious_ ,” Padme continues. “Rock, flimsi, lightsaber would never hold up in a court.”

“I could have taken him to court?” Anakin looks delighted.

“The Order stand outside the rule of the Senate and the Courts,” says Padme. “If you were an apprentice in a trade, you would have had a case. Unfortunately, Obi-Wan could accidentally kill you and no one outside the Order would prosecute.”

“The Order doesn’t prosecute,” says Obi-Wan, looking similarly delighted. “They merely...reassign.”

Anakin considers this, brow furrowed. Padme notes with some interest that Obi-Wan’s smile could be described as nothing less than shit-stirring.

“Okay,” says Anakin finally. “I’m glad I survived your tyrannical rule for ten years to become a knight so I can fairly kick your--”

“--still a Jedi Master--”

“Your very masterly--”

“-- _still_ a Jedi Master--”

“Your very masterly butt in the dojo,” says Anakin. “Where’s the cake? Isn’t this my party?”

Obi-Wan laughs. 

Padme points at the kitchen. Anakin glares at Obi-Wan first and looks pleadingly at Padme second. Padme raises an eyebrow.

Anakin gets up and fetches the cake.

;;

Padme and Obi-Wan get along so well that Anakin is almost angry. Or maybe he is angry. He’s not sure. He’s more in love with Padme than ever, he knows that for certain. But is she in love Obi-Wan? 

It’s not out of the question. When he was put in the senior padawan Statistics Methodologies and Analysis class at the age of 12, he’d decided to collect statistics on the senior padawans’ feelings about the relative attractiveness of Obi-Wan for his final project. Of those senior padawans who found human males attractive, 97.6% had answered with a resounding “I feel very positive that Master Kenobi is extremely attractive”. He passed with the highest marks in class and got yelled at by Obi-Wan for an hour. It had been worth it.

But is she in love with him? Certainly as Padme pours a second glass of Correllian wine for herself and Obi-Wan, her movements deliberate and steady as always, she seems to smile whole-heartedly at Obi-Wan as he debates Takodana’s supposed neutrality with her. Anakin recognizes that look; he’s felt it on his own face often enough. Both at her and at Obi-Wan.

Maybe he is the one that is in love Obi-Wan. He will have to search his feelings and meditate, as Obi-Wan is always hounding him to do.

“Anakin,” Padme says, snapping him out of his musing. “Anakin, would you like another glass of wine?”

Anakin searches his feelings. “Yes,” he says and watches as she fills his glass.

“A toast,” says Obi-Wan when Padme has settled gracefully next Anakin on the couch . He resists the urge to put his arm around her. “To Anakin. I am very glad you only lost one limb under my tutelage.”

It might be the wine, but Anakin is starting to feel emotional. “Thank you,” he says.

“You’re welcome,” says Obi-Wan. “Anakin, I must say that it has not been the easiest ten years of my life.”

“Mine either.”

“It has been, at points, almost unbearably eventful.”

“Agreed.”

“However, I should have been very sorry to see you as the padawan of anyone else.” He raises his glass. “You are a great man, Anakin, and you will be a great Jedi Knight.”

Anakin glances at Padme. She smiles at the two of them, her eyes bright with….something. Love? Affection? Suppressed humor?

They drink.

Anakin should probably say something. _Thank you for not killing me_ is the appropriate response. What comes out is: “Thank you for, uh, not dying.”

Obi-Wan looks like he’s not sure what to do with that.

Anakin’s not sure what to do with that either.

Padme raises her glass. “A toast to the fact that you two survived to eat dinner with me this evening. Let this be the first evening of many. And let the war end soon.”

They finish their second glass of wine.

A chronometer chimes deep inside the Padme’s apartment, several rooms away. Reflexively, Anakin and Obi-Wan look at their own cronos. Anakin looks up just in time to see Obi-Wan wince.

“I’m very sorry Padme,” he says. “But I must go. I’ve an early meeting with the Council and I should try to get some rest before.”

“I understand, Obi-Wan,” she says, standing. Anakin rises too. “We’ll do this again.”

“We must. However, I suspect the Council will have Anakin and I out on mission in the Mid-Rim for the next several weeks. Fighting has intensified in the Jedha system.”

“I’ve heard,” says Padme. “Senator Hé of NaJedha made an appeal for aid yesterday.”

“And so we go,” says Obi-Wan. He pulls on his robe, formerly discarded on the couch beside him. It’s like pulling on armor in the middle of a living room, which is why Anakin has always hated the traditional robes of the Jedi. Obi-Wan bows. “Padme. Thank you for a wonderful evening.”

“Of course,” says Padme. She looks Anakin. “Will you stay for another drink, Anakin?”

“I don’t have a Council meeting,” says Anakin. He can’t believe she’s asking in front of Obi-Wan. But of course, Obi-Wan thinks they’re only colleagues. He hopes. “I’ll help you finish the bottle.”

“Be mindful of an early call,” says Obi-Wan to Anakin. “We may have to leave directly after the Council meeting.”

“We’re not all old men like you,” Anakin shoots back. “We don’t all need a full night’s rest to stay awake in a Council meeting.”

Obi-Wan opens his mouth and then shuts it. He looks contemplative, rather than mad. This makes Anakin extremely nervous. He glances at Padme. She looks amused as she pours herself a third glass of wine.

“Tomorrow,” says Obi-Wan. “Five o’clock. Whoever makes it to the top of the spire first brings Padme a bottle of Jedha City’s finest whiskey.”

Padme takes a sip of wine. “ _Judicious_ ,” she says.

Anakin is going to win this competition by 20 meters and 5 minutes and he’s going to bring back a kyber crystal for Padme in addition to whiskey. He bows politely to Obi-Wan. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Enjoy the wine,” says Obi-Wan. “Padme, again, thank you.”

“Good night, Obi-Wan.”

When the door slides shut behind Obi-Wan, Anakin flops back down on the settee. “That went well,” he says to the ceiling. “I don’t think he suspects anything.”

Padme settles next to him and hands him a glass of wine. “For variations of well,” she says. “Now you have to win me a bottle of Jedhan whiskey at five in the morning.”

“That’s easy,” says Anakin, sitting up. “I’ve beaten him to the top of the spire twice.”

“And how many times has he beaten you?”

Anakin loves Padme more than anything. He can only tell the truth to her. “Uh, three. And we tied once.”

Padme laughs and it sounds like desert wind chimes. It sounds like the sorting of shards of broken crystal. It sounds like morning light breaking through the window of their home together. It sounds so beautiful that it is unbreakable. Might as well admit it: he might be a little drunk. Obi-Wan tried to train him to hold his liquor but it never stuck.

“Anakin,” says Padme. 

“Yes?” he says.

“Finish your wine and let’s go to bed.”

“What for?” he asks, trying for flirty and ending up somewhere near disoriented.

“You have an early morning,” says Padme, with a broad smile.

;;

**YEAR TWO**

;;

_As a member of the Council you will get caught on the temple steps multiple times holding stolen cake on your way to a dinner party_ was not one of the conditions that the Council had outlined for Obi-Wan when they offered him a seat. And yet. Obi-Wan is beginning to think there is a conspiracy involved.

“So we’ve agreed,” says Mace. “You’ll stop losing cloaks in battle and I’ll recommend the haberdashers make you a back-up cloak you can keep at the temple so you don’t walk into Council chambers looking like a misfit youngling every time you come home.”

“Yes, yes,” says Obi-Wan. “Of course. We’ve discussed this already.” Two hours ago, while Obi-Wan was trying to steal cake from the refectory.

“Have we?” says Mace, looking totally unconcerned. “I’d forgotten.”

“Oh dear,” says Obi-Wan. “Losing your mind already, Mace? This bodes well for your next campaign. Perhaps I should recommend you be taken off it.”

“Watch it, Kenobi,” says Mace. “Or I’ll tell the refectory staff who’s been stealing cakes for the past two years.”

“If you’ll excuse me, Master Windu, I have something to attend to,” says Obi-Wan hurriedly.

“Have fun, Master Kenobi,” Mace calls as Obi-Wan walks briskly down the steps and hails an air taxi.

Unsurprisingly, Anakin beat him to Padme’s apartment. Equally unsurprising is that he’s got the key to her apartment. He looks like he’s showered there too. The audacity of that is...also unsurprising. 

It smells like he’s cooked a full-course meal as well. Obi-Wan can’t be bothered to muster up some kind of lecture about propriety. “Padme’s not here yet,” Anakin says to Obi-Wan. “What kind of cake is that?”

“You know, I’m not sure. It’s the last cake the, er, third level refectory had that a youngling hadn’t touched.”

“Master Sey is going to have your head when they find out you’re the one stealing their cakes,” says Anakin, standing aside so Obi-Wan can pass into the house.

“Nonsense,” says Obi-Wan. “They’ll never catch me. I only steal their cakes after they’ve finished their shift in the kitchens.”

“Master Sey lives in the eighth floor refectory,” says Anakin, rubbing a hand through his still-wet hair.

“Well, I’ll just avoid that refectory.” Obi-Wan walks into the dining room. “Where’s Padme?”

“How should I know?” Anakin asks, trailing after him.

Obi-Wan raises an eyebrow. Anakin holds out for about five seconds before breaking. “She’s in a meeting with Senator Hé, Senator Meryk’k, and Senator Liu,” he says.

“Of Kashyyyk and Bothawui? Is the Mid-Rim mobilizing?”

“No,” says Padme, stomping into the dining room and startling them both. Obi-Wan nearly drops his cake; so much for his unflappable Jedi calm. How embarrassing. “They refused to discuss a coalition of Mid-Rim star systems. They want to rely on the Senate as separate parties.”

“That’s a shame,” says Obi-Wan. “It would be advantageous--”

“Don’t start with me,” Padme snaps. “I know it would it be advantageous. Anyone with a brain could see it would be advantageous. The only way to ensure consistent aid to the Mid-Rim would be to create a coalition. Every star system in the Mid-Rim is struggling for aid in this blasted war and the Senate won’t promise anything.” She puts a hand to her forehead. “The Senate is becoming more fractured with each day. Excuse me. I’m going to take a shower.” She stomps off to her room.

“Is there any of that Jedhan whiskey left?” Obi-Wan asks Anakin. “I suspect Senator Amidala may need it.”

“Jedhan whiskey won’t go with your cake,” Anakin says.

“Jedhan whiskey doesn’t go with anything,” says Obi-Wan.

Padme emerges an hour later while Anakin is teaching Obi-Wan how to peel a star fruit with a knife without breaking any of the starfruit’s many spikes. Obi-Wan is having trouble conceptualizing it, let alone doing it.

“If you’re going to mutilate my fruit, you had better eat it,” she says. She looks slightly calmer in much more comfortable clothing, some kind of airy dress that catches the light of the overhead lights and reflects it back into the room. “What’s for dinner, Ani--um, kin?”

Obi-Wan _does not laugh_.

“Roasted Rokarian dirt-fish with ginger-honey sauce,” says Anakin. “With three blossom bread. It was supposed to be Five Blossom Bread but I couldn’t find all of the ingredients in the market. So it’s three blossom.”

“Your culinary talents are wasted on the battlefield, Anakin,” says Obi-Wan.

“I do better with a lightsaber than an oven.”

“I rather think it’s tied.”

Padme sits down at the dining table and gestures at them to get dinner. Obi-Wan places the unpeeled star fruit back into the fruit dish and helps Anakin fetch the dinner. Beautifully prepared, doubtlessly delicious, utterly extravagant, completely unbefitting the vow of humility and simple living that Anakin and Obi-Wan took when they became Jedi.

“Thank you,” says Padme when they’ve settled into their seats. She smiles at both of them. A simple blessing. They eat.

;;

“And _then_ ,” Padme says, waving her fork around, “Senator Liu said he couldn’t see how a coalition would benefit his star system specifically, because resources would be spread out over dozens of star systems, when I _clearly_ told him that a Mid-Rim coalition would _ensure_ aid to _all_ Mid-Rim star systems because the Senate _couldn’t_ ignore a coalition like they do us individually.”

She stops. Obi-Wan and Anakin are looking at her expectantly. “ _What_?” she demands.

“You dropped your cake,” says Anakin. “For the third time.”

“I worked very hard to steal that cake,” says Obi-Wan. “Please try it.”

“Don’t try to placate me,” says Padme. “This is important.” She stabs at her slice of cake and takes a bite. “ _Oh my everloving stars, what is this?_ ”

“Chandrila pepper, distilled doaki spice, and vanilla,” says Anakin.

Padme can’t decide if she’s going to vomit or if she’s going throw both men out of her apartment so she can eat the entire cake in peace. She takes another bite to decide.

Obi-Wan leaves the room briefly and comes back with three tumblers and her bottle of Jedhan whiskey. He pours the whiskey liberally and passes the glasses around.

“To Padme,” he says, raising his glass. “May she create a coalition for Mid-Rim star systems and perhaps broker peace in this wretched war.”

“Oh, don’t make fun,” says Padme, right before she takes a sip. It tastes amazing with the cake.

“I’m not,” says Obi-Wan. “If anyone could turn the tide of the Senate toward peace talks, it would be you.”

“I can’t even get three Senators to sign onto a coalition,” says Padme. She takes another bite. “And you know as well as I that the Senate is not ready for peace talks.”

“I wish they were,” says Anakin, slicing his cake into ever-smaller bites with his fork but never taking any of them. “I’m tired of this war. I’m tired of spending every day fighting droids. I’m tired of watching my men die because of those idiot droids. And I’m especially tired of being away from you.”

Obi-Wan coughs. Anakin says, “What? I’m not allowed to miss the presence of my best friend? I don’t even see you enough as it is.”

Padme can see _A Jedi Shall Know No Attachments_ written all over Obi-Wan’s face. It’s fascinating to watch Anakin needle him like this, to toy with his emotions, to see how far he can take it before Obi-Wan snaps.

And to play make that she and Anakin are only friends. She wishes they could tell Obi-Wan, but a war is not the place or time. She’s gotten to know Obi-Wan well over the past two years. She thinks that, if they told him, he would be upset but keep the secret. He’s a good man. She cares for him deeply and not just because Anakin does.

“A toast,” she says. “To friendship. Let us live through the war to old, comfortable ages.”

They drink.

She finishes her slice of cake. “I’d like another slice,” she says, shoving her plate across the table.

Anakin cuts her an enormous slice and hands her back her plate.

“This reminds of a cake they used to serve in the palace,” she says, between bites. “One of my handmaidens...for every year of her service with me, she’d request chandrila pepper and spice liqueur cake. The kitchen staff thought I spoiled them too much, because spice liqueur is a controlled substance on Naboo.”

“They would lay down their lives for you,” Obi-Wan says, looking thoroughly amused at how fast she is eating.

“Obviously! And they were more than handmaidens. They were my best friends, my confidantes, my top advisors.” She finishes her slice and debates another. She takes another sip of her whiskey. 

“I had a cadre of official advisors, but the collective knowledge of my handmaidens topped their expertise.” She drains her glass. “You would be surprised at how much people talk when they don’t see handmaidens as politicians, as people, really.” She looks down at her empty glass, then up at Obi-Wan and Anakin. “My official advisors treated my handmaidens so poorly, as if their only job was to dress me. But they’re out of office now and some of my former handmaidens have their jobs.”

“I love a good underdog story,” says Anakin, with a smile. “Hey Obi-Wan -- remember that time you and Master Qui-Gon never realized that Padme-the-Handmaiden was Amidala-the-Queen?”

“For the last time, Anakin, we absolutely knew. Qui-Gon and I had a bet riding on it.”

“Really?” Padme asks as she scrapes crumbs from her plate onto her fork.

“Yes,” says Obi-Wan.

“No,” says Anakin.

Padme’s not sure who to believe and she doesn’t really care. They’re smiling brightly at each other, at her, like twin suns breaking through the clouds. She is suddenly, desperately glad for their presence in her home today, when at first all she’d wanted to do upon coming home was shower and sulk.

“I’d like another slice, please,” she says, passing her plate to Anakin. He laughs.

;;

Anakin has been meditating on his feelings. It’s easy to meditate when he’s cooking. Even when he has to follow directions, the instructions to cut, season, mix, knead seem to flow seamlessly to his fingers, leaving him to meditate on whatever troubles him. In this case, as in most cases, what troubles him is his feelings.

He’s been having a lot of feelings. He’s not sure how to name them. He came to the conclusion, as he was washing flour off his hands, that Padme is his wife and Obi-Wan is closer than a brother. That knowledge, obvious though it may have been, did not help him name is feelings.

As he watches Obi-Wan pour them all another glass of Jedhan whiskey, watches the smile on Padme’s face as she takes another bite of stolen cake, he thinks, with sudden clarity, _I am in love with these people_.

It’s a strange thought, because when Obi-Wan first took him as his padawan, he told Anakin that the Jedi Order were the only people he’d ever need, his brothers, sisters, siblings, in the Force. But that had been hard to believe, when he had been too old or too young, too smart or too stupid, for the rest of the younglings, padawans, knights, and masters. Taking swimming lessons with the younglings when his excitement for large bodies of water was greater than an ordinary child’s, for example, still left him bitter with embarrassment. The Jedi Order had never really felt like family, had never embraced him as family. He’d always been the odd one out.

But here, with Padme’s dress reflecting the lights from above in thousands of tiny shards around the room as she laughs, with Obi-Wan discreetly trying to get them all drunk, Anakin’s feelings resolve themselves so neatly that they should never have been in conflict. This is his family. They embrace him as such. And he is deeply, deeply in love with his family.

“Anakin,” says Obi-Wan, nudging his glass. “Drink up.”

“I thought Jedi were supposed to moderate themselves in all things,” Padme teased, already on her fourth slice of cake.

“We’re grounded for the next week. There’s no reason not to...indulge.”

Anakin wants to make a toast but he’s both too overwhelmed at the complexity of the idea of family and too awed at the simplicity of his small family. “Okay,” he says, and drinks. A very urgent thought hits him. “Obi-Wan -- is the last of the Jedhan whiskey?”

“Oh, er, no,” says Obi-Wan. “I, er, bought a whole case when we were in Jedha and I’ve been replacing bottles as we go through them.”

Padme bursts out laughing.

“We’re in the middle of a war,” says Obi-Wan, a little defensively. “I thought it prudent to invest in a case for future parties.”

“How nice of you to think ahead.”

“It’s nice you thought we would live this long,” says Anakin, which comes out a little darker than he means it to.

“If growing up under Qui-Gon did not kill me, and being your master for ten years did not kill me, I feel very confident that I can survive this war,” says Obi-Wan.

“I guess I can say the same of you.”

“I’ll do it,” says Padme, swallowing her last bite of cake with an extravagant gulp of whiskey. “I’ll broker peace in the senate so you two can come home.”

“And stay home,” says Anakin. 

Obi-Wan lifts his glass in a silent toast. They all drink to that.

This is my family, Anakin thinks. The thought makes him selfish and possessive and sad and indescribably happy. He would die for Padme; he would die for Obi-Wan; he would die for Obi-Wan and Padme together. This is his family.

He is going to survive this war. He has to. There is no other option.

;;

**YEAR THREE**

The best Obi-Wan can manage is half a cake, and it’s definitely had a bite taken out of it by a youngling, but it doesn’t matter; when he gets to Padme’s house, she and Anakin have already laid out all the alcohol in her house on the dining table. They’ve also pulled out the biggest of her punch bowls and a large silver ladle. Padme looks up when he enters the dining room and smiles at him. Anakin is frowning at a tablet.

“We need juice,” says Anakin.

“I have starblossom and grapefruit juice,” says Padme.

“Sounds like a dreadful mix,” says Obi-Wan.

“We need Aurilian fruit and Corellian apple juice.”

“Sounds even more dreadful,” says Obi-Wan.

“I also have Tomuon milk,” says Padme.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” says Anakin. “Padme, you are going to retrieve Threepio and send him to get us juice. Obi-Wan, you are going to cut off the part of that cake that has teeth marks. I am going to measure alcohol.” 

They get to work. Obi-Wan slowly cuts away the part of the cake with teeth marks and finds an actual tooth. He throws out the cake. Padme gives C3-PO very detailed instructions on juice. Anakin pours an entire bottle of Festian mezcal into the punch bowl, followed by an entire bottle Corellian rum.

“I see neither of us are going back to the temple in one piece tonight,” says Obi-Wan as Anakin uncorks a bottle of Alderaanian ruge. He sits down across the table.

“We have been away from home for five months,” says Anakin. “That’s almost half a year that I haven’t seen Padme. You almost died six times. I almost died three times--”

“I’d say four--”

“--okay, four! Four kriffing times I almost died. I’ve lost over a third of my original command. Kamino can barely keep up with the demand for troopers. Count Dooku is still at large. General Grievous is still causing trouble instead of rusting in a sand pit--”

“--the Senate is held together by a thread,” says Padme, coming back into the room. She sits down next Obi-Wan. “Outer-Rim and Mid-Rim planets are being torn apart despite aid from the Republic Army and the Jedi--”

“--the Order is rapidly losing the resources to fight a battle on all fronts,” says Obi-Wan. “We’ve lost countless Jedi lives, many of them padawan--”

“--so _fuck_ this war and fuck going back to the temple tonight,” finishes Anakin as he empties a bottle of Jedhan whiskey in the bowl.

Padme rests her head against Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “Threepio said he’d be back with juice.”

“How long will it take?”

“A quarter hour, at most.”

“Too long,” says Anakin. He stomps into the kitchen. Obi-Wan touches Padme’s arm. “Is the Senate really so bad? I confess I’ve not kept up with Senate affairs as much as I should.”

“What’s to keep up with?” She lowers her voice. “The Chancellor grows more powerful each day. I fear a total collapse of democracy in the future.” She glances at the kitchen. “Anakin doesn’t see it. I fear for him too.”

“He does have a blind spot when it comes to the Chancellor.”

“And I fear for you. If the Senate doesn’t allocate enough resources to the Order, how are you to keep fighting?”

“With my bare hands and my lightsaber, I suppose,” says Obi-Wan. “And my men at my back.”

“I hate this,” she says.

Anakin stomps back into the room with grapefruit and starblossom juice.

“Oh Ani, no--”

“Anakin!”

He empties both jugs into the punch bowl. Obi-Wan groans.

“Master Anakin,” says Threepio, shuffling into the room with brown bags. “Were these the juices Mistress Padme wanted?”

“Yes,” says Anakin, grabbing them from him. Padme gets up and ushers Threepio out of the room.

“It’s nothing personal,” Obi-Wan hears her say gently to Threepio. “We just need time by ourselves.”

“I quite understand,” Threepio says in return, uncharacteristically calm. Obi-Wan is surprised at the gentleness in his voice too. But then, Threepio has had to deal with the war too.

Padme returns to the room just as Anakin finishes pouring the last jug of juice into the punchbowl. It’s full to the brim. Anakin picks up the ladle and starts pouring the mix into tumblers.

“A toast,” he says, once he’s passed out glasses. “To us.”

Obi-Wan waits for an explanation. When none comes, he looks at Padme. Her eyes are bright. “To us,” she echoes.

Obi-Wan raises his glass.

They drink. It tastes good, somehow.

;;

Anakin has gotten a lot better at holding his alcohol over the past three years, Padme notices. He’s matched her and Obi-Wan glass for glass and doesn’t look like he’s about to pass out just yet.

Which is good, because:

“Neither of you are leaving until we’re finished,” she says, waving her hand in the direction of the dining room and wretched still-half-full punch bowl.

“Understood,” says Anakin.

“Stars preserve us,” says Obi-Wan.

“If you even try to slip out the door, Master Kenobi, I will send my bodyguards after you and have them drag you back here by your ankles.”

“You dismissed your bodyguards for the evening.”

“I’ll call them back.” She raises her chin and glares at him. “Drink.”

They’ve moved from the dining room to her living room. Padme is the only one whose back is still straight against the couch. Anakin is slouched over, swirling his drink in his glass. Obi-Wan has his legs crossed and he’s leaning against the couch, drink in hand. She narrows her eyes. He drinks.

“Are you still sleeping with Commander Cody?” Anakin asks, before draining his glass and smirking at Obi-Wan.

“Anakin, I will drown you in that punchbowl,” says Obi-Wan pleasantly.

“This is a violence-free home,” says Padme. She drains her glass too. “Naboo is a peaceful planet and as their sworn Senator and former Queen, I am beholden to the values of our planet.”

“So if you weren’t a senator or former queen, Obi-Wan could murder me and you wouldn’t care?”

“I wouldn’t even know you two, but I’d care just the same.”

Obi-Wan strokes the edges of his beard. “I wonder if Qui-Gon would still be alive if you were never queen.”

“I wonder if I’d still be a slave.”

“Let’s not play this game again,” says Padme. “We decided last time that events would play out exactly the same, remember? Except I’d be at home, being forced to take harp lessons and resenting my father and mother for not letting me be a politician even though I was vastly more qualified than any other person running for royal statehood.”

Both men look at her. “You played harp?” asks Anakin.

“My parents made me take lessons. They thought it would distract me from politics. They were, of course, wrong.”

“Do you still play?” Obi-Wan asks.

“Not at all, though my father bought me one and had it sent to my home here. I think he meant to remind me that I don’t belong in politics. Or he thought it was a nice gesture of support. I’m not really sure.” She shrugged. “I don’t really care. I don’t play it.”

“Where is it?” asks Anakin. “I’ve never seen it.”

“In the closet of the guest room. Why?”

“Obi-Wan plays,” says Anakin, jumping to his feet and wobbling only a little.

“Anakin, I _will_ drown you in that punchbowl,” says Obi-Wan.

“No violence!”

Anakin races through her halls. Obi-Wan sighs, loudly, and takes their empty glasses. Padme smiles at him. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ll be more sorry when he makes me play,” says Obi-Wan. “I’m afraid my skill is not what he believes it to be. He’s only heard me play once--”

“Yeah, but you were amazing!” says Anakin. The several-kilos-heavy harp floats a quarter meter above the ground in front of him as he walks back into the room, hand raised to keep it steady.

“You were twelve,” says Obi-Wan. “You thought everything I did was amazing.”

“Everything you did was amazing. Everything you still do is amazing.” Anakin lets his hand drift slowly to the ground; the harp settles on the carpet next to the arm of the couch gracefully.

“Chosen One refills the drinks,” says Obi-Wan, handing him the empty glasses.

“Master of the Chosen One plays the harp,” Anakin says.

“You’ll have to tune it,” says Padme.

“My skill doesn’t extend that far,” says Obi-Wan. “How unfortunate.”

“I know how to tune it,” says Padme, getting up. “Excuse me.” She rushes to the guest room and riffles through the closet until she finds the case with the tuning fork and tuning key. She returns to the living room to find Obi-Wan and Anakin carrying the punchbowl to the table usually reserved for morning cups of caf while she reads through Coruscant’s holonet news.

“Makes it easier,” Anakin explains. She settles on the arm of the couch and begins the process of tuning the harp.

Anakin and Obi-Wan watch her and drink. They know enough about instruments to remain quiet until she finishes the last string.

“Your turn,” she says, righting the harp and joining Anakin on the couch. He hands her a glass. To her dismay, they’ve only drunk a few centimeters down from half of the punchbowl.

Obi-Wan finishes his glass and stands. “I only know a few Core waltzes and some Stewjonian ballads. What would you like me to play?”

“I want to hear what you played for Anakin,” says Padme. He puts an arm around her. They drink in tandem.

“Very well,” says Obi-Wan. “This is called ‘Sight of the Holy Ones’ and it’s from Alderaan.”

He plays. He plays so beautifully that Padme, who can finally admit that she is drunk, is brought to tears.

“See,” says Anakin, after the last note fades into silence. “He’s amazing!”

“Fill my glass,” Obi-Wan says. Padme does so with shaking hands. When he takes the glass from her, he presses his fingers against hers briefly. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you,” she says. “That was beautiful.”

“Play another,” says Anakin, who has reached the belligerent stage of his drunkenness. He fills Padme’s glass.

Obi-Wan sips from his glass. “I can barely feel my fingers,” he says.

“Doesn’t matter. If you can play ‘Sight of the Holy Ones’ from memory without mistake, you can play anything.”

“Fine. This is ‘Ophelia’s Fading Light’ from The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Dowut.”

“I love that opera,” says Padme.

“Well, I hope I do it justice.”

He starts to play again.

Anakin looks at both of them, Padme first, then Obi-Wan. The fondness on his face is so gentle and beautiful that Padme can barely stand it. She loves him so much. She loves Obi-Wan too, and the music he is playing, and the beautiful oasis they’ve created for themselves in the hectic planet, in the chaos of the war.

Padme finishes her glass and hums along. Obi-Wan smiles. Anakin puts an arm around her again. 

;;

The one and only time Anakin had gotten drunk with his men, he’d drunk so much that he’d blacked out and had to be helped back to his room. His men had made fun of him for months.

The secret was that he hadn’t blacked out, not really. He was fully aware of what was going on and that was that everything around him had become so bright that he couldn’t focus or make sense of it. The clones had always had light around them, but he’d drunk so much that their light overwhelmed the room he was in, overwhelmed his senses, and made him incapable of thought or even coherent speech.

Tonight, he thinks, is going a lot like that. Except if he passes out again, he’s never going to forgive himself. The light from Obi-Wan’s smile, haloing Padme’s head as she dances by herself, in his own fingers as he takes another sip of their punch; this light overwhelms him, threatens to tear his senses apart. Unlike with his troopers, however, it’s not the mere fact of Obi-Wan and Padme’s existence that might render him incoherent, but a deep sense of belonging to them.

“Anakin,” says Padme, startling him to the point that he nearly drops his drink. “Come dance with me.”

“I can barely stand,” he protests.

“I can barely dance,” she says, holding a hand out to him. “Come here.”

He sets down his drink without spilling it and stands up unsteadily. Obi-Wan laughs a little as Anakin untidily crosses the room, but it’s fond, not mocking. He’s still playing the harp; it’s been two hours and he hasn’t run out of songs yet. Anakin never knew Obi-Wan had such a repertoire. He would have forced Obi-Wan to play more often if he had known.

He all but collapses on Padme -- the light haloing her is so bright he can barely see. He closes his eyes when she puts her arms around him and they sway. Obi-Wan is humming along with himself.

“Sing louder,” says Padme. “You have a wonderful voice.”

“I honestly do not know how to pronounce half of the words, Padme. It’s in an old dialect of Basic that the Jedi archive has very few records of.”

“How did you learn the song then?”

“I wrote it.”

“But you wrote it in a dead language,” says Padme.

“I was, er, attempting to bring it back. I was sixteen and Qui-Gon was offworld.”

Padme laughs and presses her face against Anakin’s shoulder. “I don’t believe you,” she says. “I’ve never heard something so beautiful produced by a teenager.”

“My dear Padme, you were fourteen when you were queen.”

“Yes, but politics isn’t _pretty_.”

“Fair,” says Obi-Wan. He continues playing. Anakin’s head hurts, but it’s not from the song.

“Anakin,” whispers Padme. “We should tell him.”

Anakin opens his eyes to look down at her; it hurts him terribly to see her look at him with such love.

“We can’t,” he says softly. “We shouldn’t.”

“It will be okay,” says Padme. “I know it will.”

“It won’t,” he says. He pulls her closer, lays his cheek against her hair. “It would ruin everything. We can’t tell him, Padme.”

Padme sighs against his chest. “I wish we could tell him.”

“We can’t.”

“Can’t tell me what?” Obi-Wan asks.

“That there’s still a few centimeters left in the punchbowl,” says Padme so smoothly that Anakin briefly wonders if she’s ever lied to him like that.

“For star’s sake,” says Obi-Wan. He stands up. “Anakin, your turn.”

Anakin has never played harp, but he’s good at memorizing what he loves. He also can’t feel his fingers, but he’s good at the Force too. He sits down in front of the harp and lets the Force pluck the strings for “Sight of the Holy Ones”.

Obi-Wan picks up the punchbowl and, to Padme’s shrieks of laughter, drinks from until it’s empty. Light dances around him. Anakin blinks and it’s the heaviest his eyelids have ever felt.

“Dance with me, Obi-Wan,” says Padme.

“This is hardly a dancing song,” says Obi-Wan. He is sort of listing to the side. “It was originally a worship song written by Alderaanian monks in the eighth--”

“Obi-Wan, will you just dance with me?”

Padme grabs Obi-Wan’s arms and pulls him in a circle with her, held out at an arm’s length. Their smiles are so bright, so literally bright that Anakin can barely stand to look at them. He can’t look away.

“Anakin, come join us,” says Padme, letting go of one of Obi-Wan’s hands and opening her arm wide.

“I’m playing,” says Anakin. “I can’t dance or the song will stop.”

“No, it won’t,” says Obi-Wan patiently.

“Anakin, come,” says Padme.

Anakin stands up. The song doesn’t stop. When he takes a step forward, his brain takes a mental shift to the left and the song changes to the one Obi-Wan wrote. Obi-Wan laughs, delighted. “You really are a miracle, Anakin.”

It’s too bright. It’s all too bright. There’s too much light and he can’t see. He can barely hear the song he’s playing, but he can hear Padme’s laughter. The pressure on him is so great that he can barely think, except for _I’m theirs. They’re my miracle. I’m theirs. They’re my miracle._

“Anakin?” Padme says. “Oh, Ani, are you okay?”

The light is in the very architecture of Padme’s apartment. The light is in the architecture of their shared lives. It’s too much to bear.

Anakin takes two more steps, takes Padme’s hand, falls into Obi-Wan’s arms, and that’s all he remembers when he wakes up the next morning in Padme’s guest room.

He stumbles out of bed, head pounding but room blessedly clear of light except that which is coming through the window shades.

Padme and Obi-Wan sit at the dining room table, a pot of caf between them. Obi-Wan looks like he’s been punched in the face. Padme looks like she’s trying to drown herself in her mug.

“Good morning,” says Anakin. He sits down next to Padme.

“Good is a very gracious word for this particular morning,” says Obi-Wan.

“Caf?” says Padme, putting a mug in front of Anakin. He nods.

“Did I pass out last night?” he asks.

“Yes, and not a moment too soon,” says Obi-Wan. “Otherwise I would have been the first one to be sick and that’s just unacceptable for a Jedi master.”

“You’re both paying for new upholstery,” says Padme.

They groan.

“On both couches,” Padme adds.

“There was nothing wrong with the one I slept on!” Obi-Wan protests.

“That may be true, but then they wouldn’t match,” says Padme.

Obi-Wan thinks this through and finally concedes by emptying his mug of caf. Anakin blinks and Obi-Wan is briefly encircled in light. He looks over at Padme and her smile could light up the dark of empty space. He blinks again and they’re back to their normal selves, bickering over upholstery.

A thought comes to him, as vague as a worn-out memory: _I’m theirs. They’re my miracle._

He turns the thought over in his head. He’s going to have to meditate over this. Perhaps when he’s preparing for the next dinner.


End file.
